I used to write, like, really write. Poetry and lunacy, scrawling rebellion across each page of my notebook and leaving heartbreak in the margins. It was messy and raw and mostly illegible. Unrefined. But read it aloud and a good poem makes its own backing track, not always musical, but the melody of emotion or the passion of an impressionable mind. The drum beat of a harsh truth.
Words failed to capture my disillusionment.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Midnight walks and dewy grass,
Late nights that turn into late mornings,
And late admissions of lazy love.
Sharp eyes between dark minds,
Sunset and sunrise separate our days with night,
And time that doesn't move.
Just stop ticking onto new things,
What we have tonight is enough for tomorrow,
And all the time we can borrow.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.
Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.
Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
On Time's ornate shelves
we will soon find ourselves.
Be it in a week or a decade,
each of us will eventually fade.
But our lexis and our prose,
kept in books stacked in rows,
black inked words on yellowed pages,
of our worth will be the gauges.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
A certain peace envelops
The second hour of the night,
A little mellow, a little electric,
The ratios positioned just right
I'm sure this chai I'm dreamily sipping on,
Would not seem as delectable in the day
As it is right now, with its caffeine
Making all my senses with abandon, sway
That's the thing about this hour, I say,
Its still tranquility, its silence and calm
is merely superficial; if you're up this time,
you're part of a storm
A simmering storm, with a quiet surface,
and a whirlpool of life concealed within,
A psychedelic fiesta booming with
A myriad of emotions beneath the brim
Indeed, Silence turns Audible,
Colors turn Tangible,
Misery turns Defeatable,
Loneliness turns Affable
Music begins to make all the more sense,
When freed from the cacophony of the day,
In fact, the night will tune a sweeter melody
If you'll put those headphones away
And listen! Listen to the solitude,
The slow tick-tock of the clock,
The distant horn of a car somewhere,
The occasional howl of a street dog,
The rustle of leaves as they dream in their slumber,
The whisper of the wind as it strolls outside,
The sound of Papa's snoring the sole interruption,
To the fluid rhythm of the night.
A certain contenment surrounds me tonight,
As I bid goodbye to the second hour revelry,
Where my sentiments turned to words,
And words turned into my long departed but duly returned,
Poetry
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Insanity is not
doing the same thing over
and over
expecting a different result.
Because I do
a mathematics exam paper
every week
always getting a different result.
Insanity is not
loving someone that doesn't
love you
back the way you deserve.
Because I have
loved my grandfather
each day
since death stopped his heart.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
I used to write poetry because
I liked the lull of words when
They fit together seamlessly.
I used to draw pictures because
The scenery was just beautiful
And I never wanted to forget.
I used to listen to music because
The hidden meanings in lyrics
Gave me cause to think.
Now I need to write poetry because
I must get all these words out of my
head before they drive me insane.
Now I need to draw pictures because
People tell me that I have to try to
Keep distracted for my own good.
Now I need to listen to music because
If silence falls, I know that I will start
To think too much about nothing.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
In five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Exactly where I am now,
yet in a different place.
I'll always choose the third door
and probability will be on my side.
In ten years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
With so much progress,
and nothing to show it.
I'll always argue for my opinion
and there will be a chance I'm right.
In twenty-five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Maybe I'll have company,
but I could be alone.
I'll always make direct eye contact
with hope I don't look scared of you.
In fifty years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
And I will be able to stop.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Lo! On the wing of heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of the sky he sails,
Unspeaking, rapid, immensely strong,
His silent shadow is borne along
By his steeds of fog and cloud and hail,
The earth does shake and the skies do wail.
The skies darken fast, and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in a lurid haze,
Then black, a black of a starless night
When clouds descend and block all light.
I stand, I wait, I hold no fear,
My body poised and my mind is clear.
He is come! He is come! Do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space.
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray—
A glare that is neither night nor day,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
And with the glare comes a heart-wrenching cry,
Solemn, grave and joy deprived.
And with the cry falls fast the tears,
Lashing, bitter, punishing, drear.
His tears the lashing rain that breaks
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.
Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
His agony, high up in the thunder cloud!
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all!
I stand, braced ‘gainst his icy breath
And speak, my voice strong – I’ve no fear of death.
“Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
Calm thy storm, I know thy pain!
I too lost my lover – my heart was enchained!”
“Thy agony is clear, but why dost thou cry?
For can ye not see that before you ‘tis I?
I’ve roamed o’er hill, mountain, valley and glen –
I have searched for too long to lose thee again!
My love! Reach down to the earth and clasp me securely
And united together forever we’ll be!”
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Isn't is amazing how there are
a finite number of words,
that try to describe my entire
existence.
They flow from my hands
like honey across computer keys.
My life in forty-seven lines.
It, to me, is inconceivable that
a text box can contain a person,
like a frame might contain a photo.
So those words
might have flown from my fingers,
but they are not me.
I am in my work.
Puzzles solved and projects planned,
each one has a small part of my
self within it's ink-stained pages.
My poetry and photography
represents me far better
than forty-seven lines.
If a university turns me away
based on a personal statement,
I would not be ashamed.
After all, those forty-seven lines
are not my words.
They belong to convention.
'Interpersonal skills' and
'self-confidence'.
I know those words are not me,
although I'll write them
because I know they are what
you want to
see.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC